Thursday, August 25, 2011

“So-o,” began the interviewer, casually checking his briefing notes. “We understand that you actually… believe in the Devil.”

Murphy shrugged, and took another sip of beer.

“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes’,” said the interviewer, making a check-mark in a box. Such an attitude, the notes said, is quite typical of those whose formal education does not extend beyond the third grade. “But for the benefit of our readers -- can you prove that he exists?”

Murphy looked upon the prideful little man with something like alarm. The fellow seemed dangerously close to offering an in, whereby he might learn the answer first-hand. But all he said was: “Why would I want to do that?” He gestured vaguely at the cityscape surrounding them -- the desolation, the ravaged faces, all the detritus of our frequent encounters with that insinuating liar, throughout history

“A man of few words, I see,” said the interviewer, pursing his lips. This was like pulling teeth. Why had he been given this stupid assignment? Mindy had somehow managed to snag a choice sit with the lastest fifteen-minute celebrity. How’d she do it? Probably blowing the boss. “Anyhow, I’ll put you down as a God-fearing and Devil-fearing man.” And he made a couple of check-marks.

Murphy made a No-no gesture as he swallowed. “Wrong adjective, man.” He seemed to space out awhile, thinking. The interviewer grimaced at the seconds ticking expensively by inside his Rolex. At last the t-shirted detective resumed. “I mean -- I guess you could say that, same way I fear pie-trucks, that could squash me flat. But I’m not … afraid of pie-trucks.”

Again he paused. The interviewer fretted how to wrap this thing up, but his object’s last utterance seemed to offer no way to proceed. He couldn’t very well continue, in the usual newsperson’s manner, with “And so, Michael -- how do you, personally, fee-eel, about pie-trucks?” -- That minx Mindy, she’s probably rocking back and forth right now, sharing a laugh with her complicit interviewee, her foot forward under the table in case his own foot might want to seek it out.

Speaking slowly, Murphy resumed. “I’m… wary of the Devil. You can write that down and quote me.” Now reduced to taking dictation, the interviewer did. “But see… the Devil’s not a boxer: any one of us could knock the stuffing out of him, in a fair fight. He’s more like jiu-jitsu-- use your own strengths against you.”

The interviewer was startled -- interested in spite of himself. “I thought he preyed upon people’s weaknesses.”

“Oh sure, sure, he’ll do that, he got nothing better to do. But them’s small potatoes. He goes for the strengths -- the strengths that are pointing the wrong way.”

This made no sense, but the interviewer wrote it down anyway. He would obviously have to go over his notes later. And Mindy had finally gone away from his mind.

“I mean… it’s not like he grabbed the apple, and shoved it down Adam’s throat. All he can do, really, is make these stupid little lame suggestions. Really pitiful, you start to think about it. Not a patch on a cougar, or a pie-truck.”

The interviewer now dropped his pen, and began to listen instead.

“They call him the Prince of Lies. And he can lie, all right. But he can’t even make a decent speech -- he can barely form a coherent sentence. He lets you do the talking.

“Like, you’ll be saying to yourself? What a blast it would be, to try heroin, or to cheat on your wife. And he’ll say, eyes glowing, ‘Yes, yes, go on!’ And you’ll say, ‘That Gladia bitch -- I think she fancies me.’ And he’ll nod vigourously, ‘No more -- no less than you deserve! Man like yourself!’ -- Heck, any flack on K Street could do better than that.”

Now it was the interviewer who spoke slowly. “And have you… personally… ever had any dealings with the Devil?”

This was the sort of juncture at which the interviewee was supposed to break down sobbing and Reveal All, to the delight of the home audience, wiggling their fannies on the Barca-lounger. Yet Murphy seemed surprisingly unconcerned.

“Yeh, we’ve had a few run-ins. And he’s won a round or two, on points. Never a knockout, though. But yeh, he generally puts in an appearance at some point, pretty much every case I’ve ever had.”

Now it was the interviewer who was strangely afraid. “Okay, time to wrap things up.” He glanced hurriedly at his Rolex -- or tried to: wrong wrist. “So, sum up, your attitude to the Devil is just basically, ‘God-damn him to Hell’.” A weak smile, hoping that the object would return it, and they would be back on the familiar ground of collusion.

No such luck.

“No -- no!” said Murphy, leaning forward. “I mean sure -- I guess you could say I despise the guy. But I… pray for him -- I pray daily -- praying that he, even he may repent, and be saved.”

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Poor Murphy, underinstructed, faced this problem with humor and terror.
The real story behind what was bothering him is explained here by Dr. Keith Massey, a philologist and an expert in Canon Law (and, at one time, a bit of a private detective himself, tracking down Ben Laden’s gang).

I showed Dr. Massey’s essay to the Murphy brothers, and all they could say was, “Whew!”

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

In case you think I’m fantasizing, or slumming, or making fun of them, when I talk about how the Murphys live -- just two rooms, crates for furniture, TV in hock -- that’s exactly how I lived in Berkeley, for several years. Actually in just one room, and I couldn’t hock the TV because I didn’t even own one. Didn’t own a phone. Didn’t own….I dunno, What? What do people own, anyway? I owned one pair of shoes, and two pairs of socks. Had a radio for a little while, left over from the relative affluence of college, but it was soon stolen; then no radio for a long time after that. Of course no car; transport was by a one-speed bike I bought, used and abused, for ten dollars. -- Actually very practical for Berkeley. Anything fancier got stolen. This thing I didn’t even have to lock. (Not that I owned a lock.)
No medical care, no dental. And if you think the Murphy penchant for pizza is down-market, think about it: they get a large, with everything on it. Me I couldn’t afford so much as a slice. Lived on brown rice and carrots, period, for the longest time. (That was partly a would-be spiritual thing in any case; I was in mourning for a lost girlfriend. And it is myself I am mocking, in that story about Murphy becoming a vegetarian.)

And… How did I feel about all this? If you imagine you detect a note of resentment here, that’s a misreading. My mind was simply elsewhere; I was thinking, intensely, about other things. And if anyone had pointed to the boring issue of material conditions, I would have looked around, puzzled, then said: I live like kings. In the Middle Ages, nobody owned as many books as I owned, used-paperbacks though they were. No one owned a typewriter (ah yes, I’d forgotten that, that I did own, in fact an electric: but that was not a possession, it was more like owning hands.) And as for gathering acorns and thistles in the snow, as our forefathers did -- heck, this was California. Fresh carrots! I -- Lived -- Like --- Kings…..

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

No -- nothing -- sorry. The phrase just occurred to me, and I figured I'd post it, as a sort of mantra or proof-text or theme for meditation.
Also -- just in case someone happens to google this telling phrase -- well, it'll take'em right here, where they belong.

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Murphy Makes a Mitzvah

Murphy Calls in a Specialist

Don't Mention It

From the Mailbag (SERIOUS ENQUIRIES ONLY)

Dear Mr. and Mr. Murphy:

As a law-enforcement professional, I am pleased that you boys have dedicated your lives to ridding the world of bad guys.Yet as a professional in the field of Law Enforcement, I am distressed that, every time you guys get near the china shop, you break the china.Please clean up your act(s)!I am asking you this in my capacity as a professional enforcer of the Law.

V/R,

Sgt. Lazaro

--

Greetings, sergeant!

You’re right; and we’re sorry for all the bad stuff we did, and will probably continue doing.But the next time we lift some long green off some yegg that don’t deserve it, we promise to donate it in its entirety to the Policeman’s Ball.

V/V/R,

The Murphys

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Murphys:

Do you have any idea where I left my car keys?

-- Perplexed

--

Hey Perp.:

What is it about the Interwebs that brings the lamebrains out of the woodwork, always popping up with some off-topic rant or inane inquiry, even to a hi-class quality cultural joint like this one here (O yes we forgot to announce it:string quartet onsite Thursday, usual time, immediately following the poetry reading).We’ve got a good mind to --No, waitaminit. Wait.Hey, you ain’t -- you wouldn’t be the previous owner of that Dodge what we borrowed and forgot to bring back?Cos in that case we can tell you:keys are still in the ignition, just where you considerately left them;only now broken off some.And hey, we’re really sorry.Really meant to bring it right back good is new.Only, the thing that happened was -- well it’s a long story -- actually a really funny one,keep you in stitches, except maybe for that part at the end where we total your car.Really really sorry about that.

Yours attritely,

Murphy X 2

------------------------------------------

Messieurs Murphy:

I write to you in a matter of the utmost delicacy, requiring the most refined discretion.My enquiries have led me to believe that the two of you are of such character as can be relied upon not to (as they say) “spill the beans”.

The matter concerns a diamond -- or as I might say, * the * diamond :none other than that jewel which formed the splendid centerpiece of the crown of Sulayman the Magnificent, who took it in booty, during the wars.

As you may know from your reading of history, the gem in question first went missing in the thirteenth century -- the mystery was never solved -- only to resurfacea century laterin Amsterdam,in the possession of a secretive Jew.From him it was stolen by none other than Jacques le Cocu, and sold for a princely sum to certain merchants, whose identity remains obscure.From thence it was funneled to the private treasures of Frederick the Great -- only to be once again purloined, under the Ottomans, and sent on to Istanbul.There it now resides, in an underground chamber of the inner sanctum of the Topkapi Palace, under the heavy guard of eunuchs whose fanatical loyalty is unquestionable.For years it has lain there, untouched and unseen.

Yet at last comes a chink in its armor.I have proved able, via various bribes and stratagems, to obtain the combination to a lock which seals a hitherto unguessed-at private entrance to the subterranean chamber.I need you to accompany me, as lookouts, and to do battle with the halberd-wielding eunuchs should they get wind of this.Your payment will be substantial; but your real satisfaction will be to see this peerless jewelat last restoredto its rightful owner.

Yours magnificently,

Monsieur le Comte Gran-Tord de Beauville

--

Dear Monsieur, or Beauville, or however it goes:

Thank you for yours of the sixteenth current.We have noted your proposal.I ran it past our Joey department, and he says, No dice.Sounds too much like repo.

--- --- ---

Dear Murphys:

A bad person stole my teddy-bear.Fluffy is now being held captive in a windowless room in a doorless tower within a moat-ringed castle, guarded by heavily-armed zombie deaf-mutes.Could you maybe get him back for me?I can’t actually pay you till my next allowance, but it shouldn’t be too hard.Here’s the secret plans:

(a) Kill all the zombies.

(b) Blow up the moat.

(c ) Get the bear.

Love,

Ginnie

--

Dear Ginnie:

We like that action.You’re on.

Meet us by the old oak.

-- M’s.

~~~

Yo homes!

Man you guys are just tewwwtally kewwwl…. yeww rewwwl, dewwwwdz…I rilly like it how you don’t take no guff from nobody, and how if you see a closed door, you just kick it down.As Casey Stengel put it: “L’audace! Toujours l’audace!”

Jam-Boy

--

Dear Mr. Jam-Boy:

Thank you for your appreciative letter.Casey Stengel is indeed among our favorite authors.

Only, how’s about you go out and buy a couple copies of our g*d-d*mned book, you so eager and all, stead of showering us with your silly witticisms. Our sales are in the terlet, as Casey would say. Epigrams, we can’t eat!

Steamed,

M&M

~~~

Dear Mr. Murphy and Mr. Murphy (respectively):

Do you handle Missing Persons cases?I need you to find my husband.He has disappeared.

It has got me really worried. Can’t eat -- can’t sleep.It is his turn to take out the garbage and he is nowhere to be found.

-- Nervous in Newark

------------------------------

Dear Nervous in Newark:

Missing Persons cases are in fact our bread and butter; and in this case we can share with you some of our expertise for free.

Have you tried looking in the den, in front of the teevee?That is where husbands tend to disappear to, in a case like this.Heck, that’s what *we’d* do.

-- The Murphys

~~~

Hey Murphys,

I married this babe in Vegas the other day (musta been drunk), but now I’m done with her and want to dump her.Think you could come up with some compromising photographs, maybe Photo-Shop ‘em if need be?There’s an extra fiver in it for you if you can help me ditch her fast, cause I already got another hot date for tonight.

-- Rex

------------------------------

Rex:

We do not normally do divorce cases, but in your case we’ll make an exception.

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From the Cracker Barrel

Murphy on the “Allah”/”God” question

Okay fine — not my line — not my deal at all.But it’s all so stupid, I just gotta say something.

Y’see:Folks, they all got these languages.Like, your grandmama spoke Italian, and mine spoke — well, we never knew my dad, and my mom skipped town, but anyhow, somewhere, back in the Old Country, back in the day,great-great-grandfather Patrick and great-great-grandmother Molly were chatting away there in Irish.Capisc’?

So take French.My fans will know this as the frog-talk that I spoke, a little, to such tremendous effect, in one of my famous cases (“Murphy on the Mount”).So like, you & me, we say: “sh*t”; and in France they say, “merde” — pardon my French, it’s actually the only French word I know.So help me out here, dictionary.

Right.We say, “doggie”, and they say, “chien”.And we say, “table”, and they say — well how about that, they say “table” too, only they pronounce it funny.And— here, key point:we say, “God”(like when we’re praying — you gotta not take this name in vain), and the French say — when they’re praying — …. “Dieu”.

Different words — same idea.

— Only, you say:Reeelly?Is it thesame ideareeeally?

Well listen, back in Ireland, we got Catholics and we got Protestants, and they both say “God”, but the stupid ones hate each other, and each says the other

guy got his head up his… (checking out the dictionary now — they was French, they’d say “cul”), and if the other guy says “God” (probably not praying, he just hit his thumb with a hammer), he probably means some purple moon-god with three heads or something; but anyhow, no way those bums know what they are talking about.

And in fact they don’t.And we don’t.I mean, How could we?God is infinite — on top of and at the bottom of and behind of, all things.And us?We’re just us, just doing our best, scraping by. And when any one of us says, “God”, it is really just a prayer: saying, “Thou — there — up there, somewhere —Do thou help us to comprehend…”(My Greek buddies got a word for this:Eleison, Kyrie.)

So we do, most of us, mostly the best that we can; but of “God” we got only the vaguest idea.So we just keep on, keeping on —slipping and sinning and screwing things up, century after century; until one day, God gets fed up, and he sends down his only, lonely, begotten son, to straighten things out. — Least that’s what us Catholics believe;the Protestants, I don’t know.

So where was I?— Yes! — You got, probably, somewhere in your bloodlines, your great-great-great-great-….grandmother Fatima, back from when the Crusaders were over there, laying about them with cutlasses;but after a hard day of crusading, a man’s mind turns to other matters;and lo, behold, that dark-haired beauty, her eyes like almonds, her eyes like diamonds— shy, yet inviting — drawing water from the well.And she’s from the other camp, the bad guys;but that ewer is so heavy, and you you’re a knight, right? and a knight does not leave a damsel to her distress, no no no, Saracen or no Saracen; so maybe he will offer her his services, and maybe later she will offer up a cup of the purest, to his parched lips… Anyway, that’s the story of your great-great-etcetera-grandmother Fatima.

So what did Fatima say; and what does her great-great-(you get the idea)-granddaughter, say today, when praying?

They say:“Allah”.Allah!Meaning it, whatever it means.

And they don’t understand what exactly it does mean, any more than we do, any more than you do, any more than that preacher-man who thinks he does know the real deal and you don’t — any more than does any of us,when we say “God”.

But it’s the same prayer…..

For our French and Arabic speaking readers, here's an interesting exploration of the topic: